


You're So Much Like Me; I'm Sorry

by LilacSolanum



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Parents, death of a child, sad mommies and daddies, sad parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:07:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacSolanum/pseuds/LilacSolanum
Summary: A collection of short fics revolving around the Animorph's families.





	1. Berenson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was original posted on Tumblr, after the lovely Tumblr user [overzelos](https://overzelos.tumblr.com/) sent me a bomb ass ask, and 3:00 AM Lilac decided she should spit out 2000 nonsense words. This version is cleaned up and, hopefully, a little more cohesive.

Naomi saw Toby Hamee coming toward her from the distance, and it made her feel panicked and paranoid.

Naomi Berenson had a begrudging affection for the Hork-Bajir, but she would never be truly at ease with Toby. Toby was too confident, too aware, and that made her dangerous. It was one thing to be eternally armed with sharp blades, yet ultimately be too stupid to really know what to do with them. It was another thing to be a seven foot walking weapon that understood California zoning laws. You couldn’t really tell the Hork-Bajir apart, not without really knowing them and picking out some inane detail, but everyone knew which Hork-Bajir was Toby. Toby walked with a heaviness and a purpose that the rest of her kind just didn’t have.

Toby handed Naomi four envelopes, all pink, all smelling of Rachel’s favorite perfume. Naomi recognized the scent. It was what she used to wear, before Rachel made it her signature.

Naomi took the envelopes stiffly, hardly acknowledging these pieces of communication from her dead daughter. The loss of a child was a pain too large for any of the body’s physical reactions, and ever since she had learned of Rachel’s death, Naomi had been completely shut down.

“She gave these to me,” said Toby gently, “To give to you if she didn’t return.”

Naomi took the envelopes, her heart fluttering sickly insider her. “Thank you,” she said.

Toby nodded, then left.

There were four letters. Mom, dad, Jordan, Sara.

Naomi put them in her purse. Later, they went into a suitcase. Then, they were put into a dresser drawer in Naomi’s rebuilt house. It took her ten months to take the letters out of the drawer. She read her note in a bathtub, soaked both in sweet smelling oils and Belvedere vodka, and she cried in a screaming way. It was a step toward healing, which was a scarred and imperfect thing for a mother, but a possible thing.

Rachel’s letter said everything Naomi had hoped for, and some that Naomi never expected. Least of all, it said to not to hold it against Jake.

She hadn’t spoken to her nephew since that day. There had been no time. Jake had ceased to be the too serious child her in-laws were in the process of spoiling, and had since become a symbol. He was a legend, and legends were out of reach, even to aunts. It was all for the best. If she had seen Jake the day she fully understood what had happened to Rachel, Jake would be dead and Naomi would currently be in jail.

When Naomi did finally contact him, she thanked him. Because without his deft handling of her sadistic daughter, worse consequences than the loss of Rachel’s life would have fallen upon them all. Then, she requested that they never, ever speak again. They didn’t.

 

—

 

Naomi sent Rachel’s letter to Dan in the mail. He received it, read it, and cried for the first time since he was a boy. The sensation was disturbing. He hated the sounds he made, and the way the tears made his skin feel tight and sticky. He was surprised to find he felt sick afterward, almost hungover. There was reason he left tears up to the women.

Rachel’s letter specifically told him to never forget about Jordan and Sara. It was the last request she ever made of him, his poor daughter who had gone through so much while he slept with production assistants in Connecticut. That night, he promised to himself and to Rachel that he would never forget about his family, no matter how busy his life got. Even if it was hard. Even if he was never quite sure what to do with Jordan and Sara. Even if the more time he spent states away from his daughters, the less connected he felt to them.

Dan Berenson was not known for keeping his promises.

 

—

 

Jake had to wait a while to talk to George and Ellen.

Life was a dizzy affair after the war. There was this event and that medal, this conversation and that handshake. The Animorphs were kept busy learning how to find the right camera and how to attach a lav mic, and none of them could find a moment to tie up loose ends. There came a time, finally, after the Andalites shared the secrets of clean energy, that the news cycle shifted away from the Animorphs. Then, they finally had time to talk.

Marco called Jake and Cassie to his hotel room. He looked at the two of them. “David,” he said.

David’s parents were a liability. The Animorphs had a certain image to uphold, an image that was very important. Jake had to kiss babies, Cassie had to wear skirts, and Marco had to always smile. This was their life now. They couldn’t have a story leak about about the Andalite bandits abducting, then losing, a child. Too many former controllers knew it had happened, least of all the ones in David’s family, and it was going to come out in a bad way if the Animorphs didn’t control the situation  _ now _ .

It was decided, by Cassie, that they would tell David’s parents that he had been a hero. That he had tried to fight, and had failed. That he died in battle, wrapped in the body of a golden lion.

It was decided, by Marco, that he was the one who would track down the family and speak to them. Marco was the only one who could swallow it all down, and truly stomach the lie.

Marco called Jake and Cassie after his conversation with David’s family. He told them it went well. Surpisingly-unsurprisingly, David’s parents wrote a book about him. It was called The Seventh Animorph. People spoke of his heroics more than they did of Tobias. 

After the book’s release, Jake drove to his Aunt Ellen and Uncle George’s house. They hadn’t been in much contact. Ellen and George had isolated themselves and their family over the years. It wasn’t a sudden shut down, or a finality of events, but a slow freeze that crept through the family like lips turning blue. Years ago, there had been an Ellen and a George, both with wet faces and red eyes, mourning their son and their sanity. Then, there was less of them. Then, there was nothing.

They let Jake in with solemn faces. They offered him dry scones and weak tea. Jake waved it all away. He was in no position to accept even the humblest of offerings.

He explained what truly happened with David. He told them it was David’s morphing Saddler that created the miracle, and that David’s murder of the half-dead shell-boy solved the mystery of the elevator.

Ellen stood up, pushed her shoulders back, and spat on him.

Jake didn’t know what to do. He had rehearsed every angle of this conversation, but had never anticipated that particular reaction. It was animal, uncouth and undignified. On some level, Jake felt he deserved it.

He never saw Ellen and George again, and he never would.

 

—-

 

There should be a word for the best friend of a sibling, thought Jordan. It’s not that they’re important to you, not really, but they’re consistent and comforting. Cassie had slept over at Rachel’s house so many times that she had her own toothbrush in the bathroom. Every summer, Naomi organized a late-July visit to The Gardens, and while Jordan and Sara had a rotating cast of friends, Rachel always brought Cassie. Cassie was a sort of family member, in her own little way. Berenson-adjacent.

Jordan never knew Cassie that well, but she knew enough to see the changes in her. She wore make-up, now, and pantyhose.

Cassie was on the TV, rambling about this, that, or the other. Yellowstone, Hork-Bajir, Brazil, who cared. Jordan didn’t. Still, she kept Cassie’s press conference on the TV, relishing in her ability to do so.

Jordan had been living on her own for six months. She’d moved out while her mom was at work. She lived in a freshly built apartment, one that was just a few blocks from the Santa Barbara Andalite tourist center, which was perfect for Jordan. She worked at the Santa Barbara Cinnabon. She liked Andalites a lot, and was always especially patient with them, even when they were arrogant and frustrating. She made the staff keep it a secret that she was Rachel Berenson’s sister. She missed her big sister terribly, but she’d been young and malleable when it happened, and she had survived. She didn’t want the shadow of her sacrificed sister to hang over her any more.

That was why she had left her mother’s house as soon as she could. She needed to be in complete control of her life, which Naomi would not allow. Naomi needed her daughters by her side, twenty-four seven, just in case one of them ended up in a secret war again. 

Jordan couldn’t be responsible for her mother’s sanity, not any more. She needed to decide what to watch, when she wanted to watch it, even if that meant Cassie was on the screen.

She couldn’t have done it without Jake. He’d helped her load everything into a truck, and went shopping with her to buy the sorts of things a freshly eighteen-year-old didn’t have. He paid for the apartment, actually. She never could afford to live here, not on a Cinnabon salary.

Jordan stretched out on her brand new couch, very specifically not caring that she was still wearing shoes. She turned the sound on the TV up, relishing in Cassie’s face.

 

—

 

Sara never moved out. Sara lived with her mother for so long that, eventually, her mother lived with her. Sara liked to be needed, and her mother needed to have Sara. Eldest daughters always challenged their mothers, while youngest daughters provided stability and comfort. Sara did her job well.

 

— 

 

Jean and Steve Berenson felt sick with how much had slipped past them, but who could really blame them?

The Sharing was a healthy, helpful organization, and they were proud that Tom had taken such a strong interest. Jake spent entirely too much time with Marco, but little Marco clearly needed Jake’s influence. Jake was well behaved and orderly, and Marco was without a mother and had much too much freedom. Their boys were both so, so good.

A childless house meant they could discuss what needed to be discussed. They “discussed” Jean not bringing in any more money, relying on Steve to take on patients he had no time for. They “discussed” Steve using his long office hours as an excuse to just not come home. They “discussed” Steve’s shirts smelling like his secretary’s perfume, and his secretary avoiding Jean’s eyes whenever she visited. “You’re doing exactly what Naomi did to Dan,” Jean would say, tear choked and desperate, and Steve would scream, “You’re not! Fucking! Listening!”

It was hard to notice that their sons were fighting in a war when Jean and Steve were locked in one themselves.

It was a well known fact that a child’s death often dissolves a marriage, but Jean and Steve only grew closer. Their marriage had been fading thing until Tom’s death, and after Tom was gone, they remembered that they delighted in one another. See, there was no blueprint for couples that lost a child because their child-general youngest son sent their niece-soldier to kill their prisoner-eldest in a kamikaze strike. Steve and Jean had been through more than anyone could ever sort through, and the only people that truly understood that were each other.

A year after the war ended, Jean and Steve renewed their vows. They invited Jake, but he was not in the ceremony.

They were as relieved as they were horrified that Jake had left Earth in a rogue Yeerk vehicle. They never spoke of it, but all three knew that a love without like was all the Berenson family had these days. Jean and Steve loved Jake, really and truly, but it so hard to look at him and not see Tom’s death. Jake would never say it, but it was just as hard for him to see the two people who had been so close to the situation, and had noticed nothing.

Every year, Steve invites Dan and George for Rosh Hashanah. They never come.


	2. My Best Friend Eva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco and Jake have been best friends since they were in diapers. In that case, who introduced them? Jean misses Eva every single day, and isn't a fan of how Marco is turning out. Set directly before #5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the super fun [Animorphs October](https://www.tumblr.com/search/animorphs+october)! Please follow me on [Tumblr](lilacsolanum.tumblr.com) for more quick daily fics through the rest of the month!

Jean Blumenthal and Eva Ruiz had been inseperable long before they became Jean Berenson and — well, Eva Ruiz, because that’s just the sort of person Eva had been. Eva had not changed or bent for anyone. Within the first twenty-four hours of their introductions Eva had the bookish and shy Jean dancing with a stranger. Eva picked people to pull into her orbit, and anyone who was chosen by her loved her for it. Eva had coaxed Jean out of a shell Jean hadn’t even known she’d built. Jean’s return influence on Eva was, at most, occasionally convincing her not to punch someone. Being Eva Ruiz’s best friend was a point of pride for Jean, even if Eva was constantly on the verge of getting Jean killed or worse — ruining her perfect GPA.

Eva had delighted in Jean’s easy pregnancy with Tom, and Jean had commiserated with Eva through her two miscarriages. They carried Marco and Jake together, two old friends happily swapping stories about the secret realities of pregnancy men never wanted to know about. Eva’s pregnancy with Marco was tumultuous, and Eva was constantly afraid she’d loose this one, too. She never told Peter her fears, because Peter had never been able to handle Eva at her weakest, and Eva had never enjoyed the moments where Peter saw her for an imperfect woman. Only Jean was allowed into that world, and only Jean had permission to hold Eva when she cried.

Marco had come out a few weeks early, but otherwise intact. Jake soon followed, and the two women never gave the two children a chance to _not_ be best friends. When they were little, before their personalities had settled, Jean and Eva referred to Marco and Jake as their “twins”, even if they could not be physically more different. As the boys grew, Jean and Eva could not stop talking about how the boys' friendship was a complete role reversal of their own. Jake was far more likely to be found stuck up a tree with Marco standing at the base, Marco’s his arms crossed over his chest and Marco saying, “I told you so.” However, when it came to spinning lies and protecting one another, it was well known that Marco shared Eva’s cunning. Jean had been embarrassingly outsmarted by that child more times than she cared to admit.

Losing Eva had hit all the Berensons, and hard. Jean still had dreams about her. Dreams where Eva’s death had been Jean’s fault, dreams where Eva’s death was all an elaborate prank and they celebrated, dreams where Eva had never died at all. Yet Jean had moved on. She had seen a grief counselor and had worked through her pain.

Peter had not.

Jean was driving Marco home after finding him in Jake’s room after midnight. A sleepover had not been permitted or discussed. Jean had all but physically pulled Marco out of Jake’s bedroom and thrown him into the car. He sat in her passenger seat, sulking, looking overly stressed and thin.

She knew why Marco stayed with Jake so often. She normally let it slide. She and Steve provided their boys with nutritious meals, meals that were cooked by an adult with an adult’s practice and did not come from a Kraft box. They had a basketball hoop in the yard and video game systems and cable, all things Peter had taken from Marco with his irresponsibility. Jean provided a loving home, and Peter provided nothing at all.

Jean had never truly seen the appeal in Peter. In her heart of hearts, she believe Eva had settled for someone steady rather than find someone who was truly a match for her. Eva hadn’t grown up with much money, and had a lot of anxiety about it as a result. With Peter, Eva never had to worry. Peter made more money sneezing than Jean and Steve made all year combined, and Eva loved nothing more than spending it while knowing she’d still have enough left over to eat. It didn’t make her a gold digger, not exactly, but the security of Peter’s sturdiness gave Eva a deep seated sense of comfort. However, comfort was not happiness, and Jean had always resented Peter a little. Eva had been too good for him. Eva had deserved nothing less than the stars themselves, and Peter was little more than a practical garden shrub.

Jean had been learning more and more about Peter’s state lately. She knew that he and Marco had moved to the bad part of town, which was horrifying enough, but she hadn’t known full extent of Peter's grief. Peter did not cook. Peter did not clean. Peter did nothing but lie on a couch, lost to himself, and Marco was forced to care for his own father. It was abhorrent. It had to end.

Jean made Marco let her inside. He was loathe to do so, and clearly resented Jean for putting him in this situation. Jean recognized the look. She’d seen it on Eva’s face countless time, when she told Eva it was time to go home from the club, or demanded Eva put out that cigarette. She had long since grown immune to that look.

The first thing she noticed about the apartment was how sparse it was. Where had all of Eva’s meticulously chosen furniture gone? The second thing was that the whole apartment smelled like stale nicotine, and it made Jean feel nauseous. The third thing she noticed was that Peter was asleep on the couch.

“Does he not have a bedroom?” asked Eva.

Marco crossed his arms. “No,” he said after a moment, as if he had been scanning his mind for a way out of the question but hadn’t come up with one. “The bedroom’s mine, can I go to it,  _Jean_?”

“Please do,” she said, ignoring the emphasis on her name over the word ‘mom.’ Jean and Eva used to be called mom by all their boys. Now, Marco was reminded her that she was anything but. He stormed off, his capacity for anger far too deep for a thirteen-year-old. Jean watched him go, listened to the door slam, and then she kicked Peter awake.

Peter sat up slowly, running his face over his hands. “What are you doing here?” he asked Jean. They hadn’t seen each other in a year and a half.

“Your son was at my house tonight,” she hissed, keeping her voice low so that Marco could not hear.

“Oh,” said Peter blearily. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s midnight,” said Jean. “Midnight. Did you have  _any_ idea he was with Jake? At all?”

Peter blinked, looking at the nearest clock. There wasn’t one, not really. Jean watched as his eyes fell on the VCR, which flashed 12:00, as if Peter wasn’t one of the most brilliant engineers of the decade and didn't know how to program a VCR clock. “He probably told me,” he muttered.

Jean sighed, and started walking around the apartment. She opened the refrigerator door, and light flooded the apartment’s kitchenette. This revealed a gaggle of roaches that had been enjoying the darkness. They all scattered to various other hidden places in the kitchen, and Jean tried not to scream. When she looked inside the fridge, she saw nothing but a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a jar of mayonnaise and a container of lunch meat. Bright blue price stickers were on every item. They weren’t even shopping at a proper grocery store, they were shopping at a  _convenience store_. Jean was sure neither of them had had a fresh vegetable since Eva’s had passed.

“What is this Peter,” she said, finding a small sort of pleasure in a addressing him with the amount of disdain she’d always wanted to address him with. “Is it drinking? Is that what you’re doing?”

“What? No!” said Peter shortly. “I don’t drink.”

“You used to,” said Jean, closing the refrigerator door. “You used to do a lot of things. Like, oh, I don’t know. Have a job. Care for your family.”

“I have a job,” said Peter.

“Uh-huh,” said Jean. “The prodigy Peter Champlin, cleaning toilets at the local office tower.” She went to an untouched pile of mail and opened up an envelope. This got Peter to stand up.

“Hey!” he said, his voice raising just slightly. “You can’t go through my mail!”

Jean ignored him, and held up the letter she’d just opened up. “Past due? Really?  _You?_ ”

Peter went silent.

Jean slammed the notice on the table, breathing heavily through her nose. She rested her palms on the table and leaned forward, forcing herself to calm down. When she looked back up at Peter, her face was red. “This is no environment for a child. Not at all.”

“It works for us,” said Peter.

Jean slammed her palms against the table. “It doesn’t,” she hissed. She didn’t yell, because she did not want Marco to eavesdrop, but Peter flinched backward all the same. Jean did not often get angry, and when she did, she made it count.

“Eva and I raised Jake and Marco side-by-side,” said Jean. “He’s as much my son as he is yours. And he’s unhappy. Do you understand that? As parents, we have one job, and that is to give our children happiness and strength. That is it. That is all. You have failed that. Do you have a pen?”

“I’m — I’m not sure,” mumbled Peter. He was clearly avoiding looking directly at Jean.

Jean took a deep breath and then pushed herself away from the table. She found Marco’s backpack at the front entrance, abandoned and untouched since he’d gotten home from school. This was another thing that shocked her about Peter’s negligence. No matter what Eva did the night before, Eva always made it to class, always did her work, and always got an A. Marco, according to Jake and Marco himself, had started prided himself on exactly how much homework he _didn't_ do. His mother would never have stood for that. Jean pulled a pencil out of a pocket, and then wrote down a name and number on Peter’s overdue notice.

“This is my therapist,” said Jean. “Call him. Whatever you’re doing needs to stop. You go and get your — your  _shit_ together,” she said, spitting on the word ‘shit’, because Jean Berenson did not swear unless her hand was forced. “Get it together, or else I will drain oceans and move mountains to ensure that your son lives with anyone but you.”

Peter numbly took the number from Jean’s hand. “Okay,” he said.

“That is not an empty threat,” said Jean, gathering up her things. “Try me.”

If Eva was not there to protect Marco with a mother’s wrath, Jean would do it for her.


End file.
